


The Hand That Feeds

by Magnolia822



Series: Ineffably Kinky Husbands (Good Omens Kink Meme Fills) [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Baking, Cake, Coming Untouched, Fix-It, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23982964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: After the lockdown, Crowley finds himself with a new preoccupation: Aziraphale's hands.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffably Kinky Husbands (Good Omens Kink Meme Fills) [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1476824
Comments: 28
Kudos: 398
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	The Hand That Feeds

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the GO Kinkmeme for [this prompt.](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2724185) Enjoy! 
> 
> No offense is intended, etc.

Crowley doesn’t realise it until about two weeks after lockdown restrictions in London are lifted, and he’s back sat on the counter in Aziraphale’s tiny kitchen, watching the angel bake. It’s a hot, humid July day, but still Aziraphale has insisted they need a lemon drizzle for tea, one of the many confections he perfected over the course of those boring, interminable, excruciating months. 

“You see, my dear,” Aziraphale says, dragging his pointer finger through the batter still clinging to the side of the glass bowl. “It’s so perfectly fluffy. That’s the effect of the grass-fed butter - Irish. Wonderful stuff.” He brings his finger to his mouth and his pink tongue darts out to taste, and his eyes roll back in his head as he closes them. “Simply scrummy.” Crowley watches with the sort of interest he reserves for those moments when he knows Aziraphale is too distracted to notice. They have seen each other nearly every day since he woke up - and Crowley still hasn’t gotten his fill. 

Crowley clears his throat. “Looks . . . good.” 

“Here. You absolutely must taste.” Aziraphale swipes the bowl again with the same finger and then, before Crowley knows what is happening, his mouth is full of angel fingers. Or rather, one angel finger and, along with it, the sweet-tartness of lemon and creamy butter. Crowley reacts without thinking, his too-long tongue wrapping around and dragging against Aziraphale’s skin, tasting the essence of him underneath the confection. The sensation is like nothing he’s ever known. He fights down the moan building in his throat and licks again, taking in Aziraphale’s finger much deeper than necessary as he does. He licks until all traces of sweetness are gone. He licks for what is probably an uncomfortably long time.

When Aziraphale finally withdraws his finger, his cheeks are slightly pink, eyes wide, and Crowley is aware of two things. One, he has a throbbing erection that must, in fact, be very visible from where Aziraphale is standing nearly between his legs; two, he is never going to be the same. 

“Well,” Crowley manages, his breath coming out as a wheeze. “That was a thing.” 

Aziraphale stares at his finger, then back at Crowley’s mouth. “Indeed.”

***

It’s not that Crowley has never appreciated Aziraphale’s hands before. They are always neat and clean, blunt fingers surprisingly nimble as they button or unbutton, flip through delicate pages, or select the perfect bite. Aziraphale’s hands are soft, but they are extremely capable. Crowley has admired them the way he has always admired everything about Aziraphale, save for his penchant for obstinacy and obedience to Above, perhaps.

Now, however, he can’t stop thinking about them. It’s becoming a bit of a problem, and one he has to address repeatedly: in the shower, before bed, in the middle of the night, first thing in the morning, and again before any visit to Aziraphale’s, just to be on the safe side. With one hand on his cock and the other in his mouth, he tries to recreate the moment in the kitchen in vain. Crowley’s fingers are too long and knobby, and they don’t taste like Aziraphale - they are, in short, a poor substitute. Worse, Crowley is wanking as though he’s a thirteen year-old boy and not a supposedly sexless occult being. He hasn’t tossed off this much since . . . well, maybe that one week in Rome, after the oysters. 

“So, I have a bit of a hand thing,” he tells the Bentley as he pulls onto the road, destination SoHo. The interior of the car is never hot in the summer, and the engine rumbles pleasantly; it’s the perfect day for a drive, and he is taking Aziraphale to the countryside. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a _fetish_. It could be worse,” he adds, trying to sound firm. “It could be feet.” 

Aziraphale has rather lovely feet, though Crowley hasn’t seen them for many millennia. He groans at himself and barely avoids swerving into a biker. 

When he pulls up in front of the bookshop, Aziraphale is already waiting for him, dressed in his typical fashion, but with the addition of a jaunty white bowler. He is holding what looks like is some sort of cake - lemon. Of course. 

“Morning, angel,” Crowley says through the window, waving in what he hopes is a careless manner. “Get in.” 

“Hello, my dear. What a smashing day for a picnic.” Aziraphale deposits his baked goods on the back seat, which is of course miracled to repel any stains, and settles in beside Crowley with an excited wiggle. The trunk of the Bentley is already laden with treats - wine chilled to the precisely right temperature, prawn cocktail, spicy olives, fruit, cheese and at least five kinds of biscuits. 

“It’s good to see you,” Aziraphale says, tugging absently on his seatbelt with his compact, well-manicured fingers. One of which has been in Crowley’s mouth. One of which he has _sucked_ on, for Somebody’s sake. 

Crowley white-knuckles the steering wheel. “I just saw you yesterday.” He pulls away from the curb with a little more vehemence than usual. 

“Even so.” 

The sentiment, though shared, makes Crowley more warm and fuzzy than he supposes is right for a demon. Still, he’s not exactly a proper demon anymore, not that he ever was. And he knows that if he is ever going to get to where he wants to be with Aziraphale, fuzzy feelings are definitely going to have to be experienced, and expressed. The thought, exhilarating but terrifying, keeps him quiet for most of the drive, and also suppresses any inappropriate erections. Aziraphale seems to be lost in his own thoughts as well; he hardly remarks upon Crowley’s driving or the music, and they make excellent time to their destination - a grassy bluff overlooking the sea. 

Laden with their supplies, they select a bit of ground under one of the few gnarled trees that dot the landscape. The wind knocks off Aziraphale’s hat and ruffles his hair as he goes chasing after it, and Crowley spreads the blanket and begins to lay out the food, which gets an enthusiastic reception from a very peckish angel. 

It’s a peaceful day. No one else is around, and gulls wheel in the blue sky above, their hoarse cries drowned by the sound of the sea. 

They share a second bottle of rosé as Aziraphale nibbles on the last of his dessert. Crowley watches the little bites disappear into Aziraphale’s mouth, delivered by those tantalizing fingers. Of course, neither of them has mentioned The Incident since it happened a week ago, and Crowley is determined to keep it that way. He knows he still moves too fast for Azirapahle on occasion. The angel shooting him down over spending the lockdown together was evidence enough of that. While the rejection had stung, it would have hurt more if he hadn’t heard the clear note of regret in Aziraphale’s voice. Aziraphale had wanted him there, but Crowley had been foolish enough to suggest it instead of just arriving at his doorstep. Giving Aziraphale time to overthink and fret was never a good idea. 

So, he will go slow - glacially so. He will move at the pace of a tortoise crossing the Sahara. 

The picnic, at least, is a smashing success, as far as courtship rituals, even if it is incredibly difficult for Crowley to lounge mere feet away from the object of his desire without reaching out to touch. Aziraphale seems content in the dappled shade, his hat long discarded, legs stretched out on the red tartan blanket. Crowley, grateful as ever for his glasses, watches him from underneath lowered lashes. 

Azirapahale drains the last of his glass of wine and pats his stomach. “That my dear, was simply scrumptious. You’re sure you don’t want anything?” He gestures to the detritus of the lunch. The cheese and prawns are nearly gone, along with a substantial portion of the cake and the strawberries and cream. Olive pits are arranged in a neat little pile on the corner of Aziraphale’s plate. 

“Nah, you know me, angel. Fine with the wine. Don’t worry, though - I’ll sober up before we drive home.” 

“You’re sure there’s nothing here to tempt you? Nothing at all?” 

Something about the tone of Aziraphale’s voice makes Crowley rise up onto his elbows from his position of repose. He nudges his glasses down his nose. Aziraphale looks very pink indeed - the flush on his cheeks staining his throat. In and of itself, the blush could be an effect of the wine or the heat of the day. His eyes, however, his eyes express something more. 

“What exactly are you saying, angel?” 

Aziraphale’s gaze darts nervously. “Oh, I was just wondering if you’d . . . like to taste anything in particular?” He reaches down to swipe the last bit of cream from his mostly empty plate, and their eyes lock. Suddenly, Crowley knows exactly what Aziraphale is implying - is asking. His whole body feels like it might combust from the shock of it. What a terrible time to be discorporated, he thinks ruefully. 

“Ah. All right.” 

Not sure exactly what is expected, Crowley does nothing. The moment stretches and grows almost painful with tension, until finally Aziraphale leans forward over the blanket. His fingertip presses softly against Crowley’s lips, and Crowley opens his mouth. Aziraphale slides his finger further inside, over his tongue, and Crowley closes his lips and sucks, the transient sweetness of the cream immediately fading as it is replaced by the delicious taste of Aziraphale. Crowley’s cock, which until now has behaved, immediately begins to fatten in his jeans. He rubs his tongue against the pad of Aziraphale’s finger, sucking hard, and the angel lets out a little gust of breath that smells of wine. 

“Good?” Aziraphale asks huskily. His pupils are blown, lips slightly parted as he watches. 

“Mmmnmph,” Crowley replies, not willing to give up his prize. He opens his mouth and Aziraphale pushes his middle finger alongside the first, this time with no pretense. The fingers are firm and heavy on his tongue, yet gentle, and Crowley takes the two of them together, his mouth filling with saliva in his eagerness. 

Aziraphale lets out a small noise of surprised pleasure. “Is this what you want? I . . . oh, you have no idea how I’ve thought of your mouth these last few days - your tongue. Good lord.” 

Crowley grunts and sucks harder, his prick as hard as iron in his jeans. He doesn’t dare to touch it, not with this fragile thing blooming between them. He is so far gone he hardly even notices when Aziraphale removes his glasses and sets them aside, all he knows is that Aziraphale is giving him an incredible gift, and he is so grateful. “More,” he rasps out, his tongue sore from overuse. “Give me another.” 

Aziraphale does, adding his third finger to fill Crowley’s desperate mouth. Crowley wraps his tongue around them all, licking between them, and the throbbing pressure in his groin intensifies. He’s going to make a mess of himself here on this blanket, under the open sky, with nothing but Aziraphale’s fingers in his mouth. 

Aziraphale is so near to him now. The hand not working in Crowley’s mouth deep is in his hair, scritching and tugging gently at his scalp. Crowley arches his hips helplessly to relieve the ache, making pitiful, muffled sounds against the invading fingers. Their eyes meet again, and Crowley bites down lightly, unable to help himself. His cock twitches, and he shakes with the effort of holding back. 

“It’s all right, my love,” Aziraphale says. “I want you so much, you have no idea. Nothing you could do would be distasteful to me. I want to see.” 

No longer able to hold back, Crowley’s hips jerk once, twice, and then he is coming, the white hot burn of pleasure radiating from his groin up his spine and short-circuiting what’s left of his brain. He is utterly spent, a sticky disaster, when he finally releases Aziraphale’s trapped fingers. There are little indentations on his knuckles. Crowley frowns and soothes them with his tongue, and then draws back, kissing Aziraphale’s fingertips, pressing his lips to the palm of his hand. 

Finally, he laces their fingers together and stares at Aziraphale’s face, waiting for him to speak. 

“I definitely have a thing,” Crowley says. 

“That’s all right. So do I. I think it might be the same one.” Aziraphale’s blush deepens. 

Crowley squints, and he is just barely able to make out the patch of wetness spreading across the placket of Aziraphale’s trousers. 

“Angel,” he says with a gasp. “You too?” 

“Well, you can’t blame me, my dear. You looked awfully alluring with my fingers in your mouth. I couldn’t help imagining something else there, as well, I confess.” 

“Sssatan’s sake!” Crowley exclaims, scandalized. “You are full of surprises.” He tugs Aziraphale’s hand, and his arms are suddenly full of everything he ever wanted. Aziraphale is warm and solid against him, and from this new angle Crowley can make out every last one of his long eyelashes, the tiny lines around his eyes and the deeper creases on his forehead. 

“Well. The lockdown gave me a long time to think, my love. I . . . I’ve been rather foolish this last year, I’m afraid. Forgive me?” Aziraphale’s blue eyes are hopeful. Their noses brush against each other, and Crowley’s mouth tingles. He feels soft, his tongue heavy and useless. 

“I’m glad you learned to bake, angel,” Crowley says. “And yes. Of course I forgive you.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth is warm and sweet, the kiss curling Crowley’s toes in all sorts of promising ways. Perhaps this is the beginning they were waiting for all along.


End file.
